


Honey, Sugar, Yeast

by lamella (orphan_account)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Worms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-01 02:50:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20250946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lamella
Summary: Starebucks is a pretty nice cafe, except for the terrible name and the strange amount of security cameras. Friendly baristas, a nice atmosphere, comfortable chairs, and now-delicious pastries. Jon, newly promoted head baker, is excellent at his job and proud of it.Too bad he's too clueless in all the other arenas of his life to notice he's falling in love with Martin.orThe entities are all businesses, the real evil is gentrification, and Jon and Martin adopt cats.





	1. In Which Jon is Promoted and Befriends a Cat

Baking isn’t simple, necessarily, but it is predictable. Weigh the right amounts of ingredients out, follow the correct procedure, and you know what you’ll get. Most irregularities can be pinned down to moisture in the air, or heat, or the size of the eggs, something like that. It makes sense, in a way that many things do not, so Jon enjoys it. 

He likes to know what he will make for the day and where things come from, so he doesn't mind the paperwork for health code. He likes the ritual of cleaning, and he’s always been a bit of a germaphobe at heart, so that part is fine, too. 

Overall, Jon likes his job. 

He absolutely does not like the disaster his predecessor left the kitchen in. 

Sure, he’s worked at the cafe for some time already, but Gertrude was the head baker, so she had the final say over all of their organizational systems. The document systems were easy enough to redo, but the physical systems are a mess that Jon is still running into issues with after days on his own. 

It’s almost like she was trying to make it difficult. Jon doesn't feel even a little bad that Elias fired Gertrude.

So he does his job, gets in at 5 am and spends a little time baking yesterday’s prepared bread dough. He starts on muffins, which are always easy, and those get into the oven without a hitch. After those, there’s not enough flour left to make a batch of biscuits, so Jon goes to get some more.

He grabs another bag of flour, except when he shifts it to carry it over to the work area, a small brown spider skitters over his knuckles. A little objective part of his brain thinks he must have disturbed it when he moved the bag, but the rest of him is too busy screaming and getting the spider off to do anything about it. 

Tim bursts through the kitchen door, first aid kit at the ready, only to see Jon at his most undignified. As soon as it becomes clear that Jon isn’t actually injured, he starts laughing. Martin and Sasha come in after him, until the kitchen is crowded with Jon’s coworkers. Jon scowls at them and says something about a spider, can someone please deal with it, before leaving out the rear exit.

“Spoilsport!” Tim calls after him as the door slams open.

Jon’s too aware of his own pulse, how his wrists and the soft insides of his elbows are fluttering slightly. There’s not any pressing tasks, and his hands are shaking just enough to make chopping things evenly a hassle. He can take a break. He wants a cigarette quite badly, needs the ritual of it, so he lights up. 

He takes a long drag, and holds the smoke in his lungs for a long moment. The heat and the taste of tobacco are familiar, and they bring him back into himself a little. Smoking is a bad habit, yes, but it’s repetitive and the pattern of drag, hold, exhale, watch smoke curl makes his mind blank. The nicotine helps, of course, but the actions themselves have a comfort to them.

Jon’s about halfway through his cigarette when he hears a loud meow. It’s coming from behind the bins, so Jon tries to spot the cat there first. After a moment, he finds the dark shape hiding in the shadows.

It’s huddled just behind the wheel closest to the wall. Jon decides that cats take priority over nicotine, and stubs out his cigarette. He squats down and makes kissy noises at it, one hand stretched out towards the cat, waiting for it to come nearer.

It comes closer after a minute, and when it’s out from underneath the bins, he can see how small it is. Well, she is, if you take the fact that she’s calico into account. Jon leans towards her more, willing her to come close enough to pet, and she does, creeping forward inch by inch. She sniffs delicately at his fingers, but pulls away when he tries to pet her. She comes back after a moment, though, and deigns to allow his gentle stroking along her shoulders. 

He thinks he might be on the verge of getting to scratch her chin when the back door opens, and she freezes. Jon’s head whips up to Sasha, standing in the doorway, and when he looks back all the can see is the dirty white and orange tail disappearing back into her hiding spot. 

“You alright?” Sasha asks. She’s got a slight smile on her face, but her tone is sympathetic. “Martin put the spider outside.”

“Oh.”

“You shouldn’t take him for granted, you know. He does a lot for you. Coffee, making sure you eat, saving you from spiders…” Sasha shakes her head, only half joking. “Don’t know what you’d do if you needed to take care of spiders yourself.”

“I don’t- I don’t take Martin for granted!” Jon scowls. “Anyway, that’s not- I was just trying to pet a cat.”

“Eh, I guess that explains why you’re crouched in the middle of an alley. We opened three minutes ago, though, so you do need to get back in the kitchen.”

Right. Biscuits. Jon straightens up and walks back inside, pointedly ignoring Sasha’s raised eyebrow. Of course Martin knows Jon appreciates him. They’d gotten off on a bad foot, but that issue was resolved within a week. Martin is annoyingly competent at his job, and Jon can’t help but respect his ability to hold a conversation with a customer while making two different orders. Just because he never says it dosen’t mean it isn’t true.

A little bit of guilt creeps into his mind, still. He’s not one for things like ‘pleasantries’ or ‘social niceties, Jon’ (one of the reasons he’s in the kitchen instead of behind the counter) but maybe he should thank Martin more often. 

Jon drowns his feelings in the routines and patterns of baking, kneading and rolling and mixing until he’s produced enough pastries to feed a family of 8 for a week. 

He’s so caught up in it, in fact, that when his stomach rumbles it startles him. It’s 1:00, so he’s long due for a break, anyway. With a mini-quiche and a croissant in hand, Jon goes to find a seat in the front.

In a stroke of luck, his favorite seat in the corner in front of the bookshelf is open.

Jon curls up right away, sitting sideways with his knees tucked up and feet hanging just off of the chair. A little childish part of him wants to stick his tongue out at one of the security cameras, but he knows Elias dosen’t care about professionalism from him as long as he dosen’t scare off customers. 

He’s halfway through his croissant when Martin comes over to hand him a cup of tea. It’s even in Jon’s favorite mug, the deep green one with a chip in the bottom but a fantastically comfortable handle. 

“Thank you, Martin.” He says.

Martin’s already heading back to the counter. “No problem, Jon.”

“Martin- wait.”

He freezes for a moment before turning back to Jon. His eyebrows are furrowed together in confusion and his voice is cautious when he responds, “Yeah?”

“I’m serious. Thank you, for the tea, and also the spider, this morning. I appreciate it.”

“I really don’t mind, Jon. I like to be helpful.” Martin’s eyes are warm and it makes Jon feel bad for not giving him more positive feedback. “It’s nice to hear, though.”

After watching him go back to the counter and start to make drinks with a more honest smile than usual, Jon turns his attention from Martin to the street in front of the cafe. It’s a weekday, so there’s not too many pedestrians, but there’s still enough going on to make people-watching enjoyable. It’s a pleasant enough way to spend his break, anyway. He watches someone fastidiously mop the balcony of Sky Blue, making sure the thick glass stays clear as possible. The suds leave mesmerizing patterns, and he finds himself lost in them as he finishes up the croissant.

The little bell above their door chimes, and a woman walks in. A faint whine follows her, and Jon notices the dog, left outside for a moment next to a collapsible bowl of water. It lies down to wait for it’s owner, eyes big and forlorn, while she orders a cappuccino to go.

Jon’s reminded of the cat, dirty and uncared for in the alleyway. She’s probably not getting much clean water to drink.

He stands up abruptly, brushing the crumbs off his pants and heading behind the counter. Tim nearly bumps into him when Jon bends down to get one of the little cardboard soup cups. Instead of a ladling in tomato soup, he fills it with water. 

He ignores Tim’s complaints and takes the water through the kitchen to the back. The cat is nowhere to be seen, which isn’t unexpected, but Jon decides to sit down and wait for a little bit. It’s not like he doesn’t work enough. 

Waiting there, making kissy noises and murmuring, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” Jon lets his mind wander. New recipes and flavor combinations to try, the logistics of making sure the cat’s alright, whether he should bother Elias to hire a new employee so the baristas have more time off. He’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he almost dosen’t notice Martin come to stand next to him.

“Yes?”

“I was just curious. Sasha said you saw a cat earlier?” 

“I did. And, well, we’ve got more than enough water to spare some for a stray.” Jon shifts on his heels, just enough to make sure his legs don’t fall asleep. He dosen’t bother to continue the conversation, and they lapse into silence.

It’s not too long before the cat deigns to show herself, walking towards them in brief bursts, sitting down to stare at them before moving forwards again. She eventually reaches the little soup cup and starts lapping up some water.

Jon can’t resist offering his hand again, and although it takes nearly a minute after she’s finished drinking, the cat eventually moves close enough to sniff his fingers. He moves slightly, and she backs away again. A moment of disappointment falls over Jon before he crushes it down with extreme prejudice.

His hand is still outstretched, though, and the cat seems to make a decision, moving forwards to rub her tiny face against Jon’s hand. Her entire face seems to scrunch up on one side when she does it again, pushing hard enough to pull at her mouth and show her tiny, sharp teeth. Jon lets out a tiny, soft laugh.

“Hello to you, too, kitty.” He says, unable to stop the little smile growing on his face. The cat continues to rub her scent on him, and he’s reminded of how much he misses having one.

Martin kneels down and the cat freezes, eying him cautiously. He’s patient, though, and manages to coax the cat into taking a step towards him when something falls, and the loud clatter startles her. A soft noise of disappointment works its way out of Martin’s chest as they watch her retreat at full speed into another hiding spot. 

“Well, I’m sure you can get a chance to pet her another time.” Jon straightens up, wincing a little bit at the stiffness in his knees and back. Maybe he shouldn’t spend so much time standing. He offers a hand to Martin, who takes it and pulls himself up, a little awkwardly given how much shorter Jon is.

“Yeah,” Martin says, “I’m sure she’ll come around again.”

His face is quite flushed, his freckles disappearing into the pink.

“Are you alright?” Jon asks.

“I- yeah, I’m fine! Nothing to worry about here!” Martin’s face grows an even deeper red. It’s a little concerning, but Jon isn’t about to push. 

“Right, well, if you’re feeling sick tomorrow, just call in.” 

Situation sorted - cat and Martin both - Jon heads inside. A kitchen is never free from tasks, and he’s got prep work to do.


	2. In Which Martin Has A Bad Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for worms. Normal ones, nobody gets hurt, but if worms or caterpillars bug you, a word of warning.

“Martin, come here, please,” Jon calls from the kitchen. Martin walks in to see him scowling at their produce storage. “I thought I ordered some lavender for those little cakes Sasha asked about, but there isn’t any. I’ve already made the sponges, and, well, it’s fine if I do something else, but I think that spiritual shop does stock food-grade lavender.”

“Oh, do you want me to go get some?”

Jon looks up at him, and his face looks like it can’t decide whether the expression it’s trying to make is exasperated or relieved. “Yes, please.”

“Right, well, I think Sasha and Tim have the front sorted out so I’ll just-” Martin bounces a little and gestures towards the exit. “Go get some, I suppose.”

Good Energies is just across from the cafe, so it takes barely any time to get there. He dithers outside their door for a second, though, because frankly it freaks Martin out a bit. Occult and spiritual stuff doesn’t bother him, usually, but Good Energies does not live up to its name. The entire place smells faintly of chemicals from the fumigation they had to have for an ant infestation the year prior, and the pungent smells of dried herbs and incense don’t mask the wet smell of mildew, either. Plus, the lady who runs it keeps bees, and Martin’s not too keen on being this close to a beehive. He likes bees, he does! They should just… not be near him. 

He eventually goes in, because Jon sent him for a reason and buying some lavender shouldn’t take more than a minute.

Jane is sitting behind the counter, smiling down at something she’s cradling in her palms above an open box. She puts on her customer service face when she hears the door, but relaxes after she looks up and recognizes him. “Oh, hello. How are you?”

“I’m fine, we’ve just, uh, realized we’re short on an ingredient and were wondering if you had any food-grade lavender? Just for one batch of the little cakes.” Martin shifts his weight from foot to foot. There’s another weird smell, something organic and vaguely unpleasant. Jane chews on her lip while she thinks.

“We should,” she says, considering, “I’ll check for you, hold this for a moment.” 

Jane dumps a handful of leaves in his hands, once he holds them out over the box. It’s not a handful of just leaves, though, he realizes when he feels movement against his palm. There’s little silver-white worms crawling through them. Martin doesn't scream, flinch, or yelp, even though he wants to. The worms are inching happily along, eating off the edges of the leaves. Their chewing is louder than Martin would have expected. It’s a deeply unsettling noise. He looks in the box, and there’s more of them. Some of them are a little darker and skinnier, and some of them are fat and waxy. They’ve got little nubby legs. The box is plastic, lined with paper towels and piled with leaves. He focuses on that instead of the fact that there are  _ worms _ in his  _ hands _ . There’s little dark pellets on the paper towels. It must be the worm poop, he thinks, feeling slightly delirious.

Jane comes back, holding a paper bag. She takes a look at him and sighs, putting the bag down and taking his hands, moving them so that the leaves and worms fall out into the box. One stubborn little worm clings onto his ring finger, and she gently brushes it off. “They’re just silkworms, you know.  _ Bombyx mori _ , perfectly normal. Nothing to be afraid of.”

“Um, alright, I’m just. Not too fond of bugs.” Martin shakes his hands like he can flick off the phantom sensation of things crawling under his skin, and looks around to see if there might be a convenient bottle of hand sanitizer. There isn’t. 

“Sorry, then.” Jane measures the weight of the lavender. “I like them, forget others don’t. Their chewing sounds almost musical, yeah? Soothing. Here, I’ll round down to £4 for you.”

“Thank you!” Martin says, pulling out the payment as fast as he can. “I’ll just- be going now. Bye!”

He nearly forgets the lavender, he’s in such a rush to leave. Tim stares at him when he bursts into the cafe, beelining towards the kitchen. 

Martin drops the lavender on the counter and heads over to the big sink. Jon stares at him while he scrubs viciously at his hands, trying to get any worm germs off.

“Martin? What happened?”

“Worms.” Martin keeps washing his hands, because he can still feel the phantom movement of the worms. “I got your lavender, though.”

“Oh… Thank you, Martin.” Jon seems more confused than before. “Worms?”

“Prentiss, you know?” Martin’s fairly confident that any contaminants are probably gone by now, but he keeps washing for another little bit just in case. 

Martin glances over in time to see Jon’s nose wrinkle as he realizes what happened. He’s got a little bit of cream flicked over a cheekbone, and Martin really wants to wipe it off. Jon mutters something about Prentiss’s weird bug hobbies and how it’s probably against health code, then looks up at Martin and says, “Thank you for your sacrifice. I can’t imagine how terrible that was.”

Like always, Jon’s dry humor startles a laugh out of Martin, and he responds with some stupid quip about doing anything for the cakes.. Jon smiles, small but genuine, and Martin has to stutter out his excuses to leave before he says something even stupider. 

Tim takes one look at his face when he walks out of the kitchen and laughs at him. It’s not  _ mean _ , but Martin can feel his face grow even warmer. Sure, he’s got a massive, ill-advised crush on Jon, but it’s not like he’s proud of it. At least the others don’t tease him too much, even if Tim can be truly obnoxious about it when he does. 

He doesn’t make a comment this time, just leaves Martin alone to start clearing tables and collecting cups. The bookshelf is in complete disarray, and Sasha isn’t in today to remember the proper organizational system, so he just reshelves the books sitting on the nearby table in their approximate places.

A crash of shattering china startles him before he can finish, though, and Martin turns to see some poor girl in her late teens or early twenties staring at the smashed cup in mute horror. By the time Martin’s gotten the mop, she’s already started trying to soak up the spill with a handful of napkins. 

“It’s fine,” he says, trying to put as much reassurance as he can in his voice. “Look, why don’t you go grab a spot at that table over there? I can deal with the mess.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I just- miscalculated and knocked it over.” She’s borderline frantic, tears welling in her eyes. Martin may not have a degree, but he still recognizes the exhaustion and stress from pulling all-nighters in an attempt to get a big project done. Impossible not to, after working in a cafe for so long.

He gently and firmly insists she let him deal with the mess and take her laptop and notes to a clear table -  _ I’ll even bring you a new drink in a bit  _ \- and turns to the mess. It’s a sticky concoction of a drink. The cream and sugar is already congealing into a nasty, tacky film on the floor. 

So he picks up the shards of the cup, mops up the spill, then cleans the area again with some soapy water. After the mess is sorted out, he brings the girl another drink: a mocha with extra syrup, extra espresso, and a healthy sprinkling of cinnamon over top, if he remembers correctly. Her eyes go wide when she gets the second drink, and she thanks him profusely. Martin nods, offering her up a slightly tired smile, and goes back to cleaning up.

He lets his mind wander while he wipes down tables, and he’s brought back to the sensation of Jon’s surprisingly strong hand pulling him up a few weeks ago. Martin always forgets how much wiry muscle Jon has in his upper body, since he looks like a stiff wind could send him tumbling down the street. He’d managed to haul Martin up to standing, though, even with the huge difference in their size. 

Not a bad place to start a daydream, if his mind is concerned, and he plays through the memory again. Instead of Jon’s awkward questions into Martin’s health, Martin imagines keeping their hands together, lacing their fingers. He steps closer to Jon, and brushes their noses together— no, rewind. He steps closer to Jon, and quietly asks to kiss him. Jon leans up, and gently presses their lips together. Martin tilts his head into the kiss, and—

Basira’s voice startles him out of his thoughts. 

“Er, are cats allowed to come in here?”

She’s still in her uniform, stood in the doorway with one foot awkwardly keeping the calico from coming in.

“Not… technically.” Martin says, “But I won’t tell if you won’t?”

She makes a noise of affirmation and lets the cat come inside. The cat starts a careful examination of a chair, sniffing delicately at one of the legs. 

“This is why you’re my favorite regular.”

“I’m sure you tell all the ladies that. Hi, Tim, can I get a large cappuccino, please?”

“Yeah, of course.” Tim says, ringing her up. After he’s gotten the order punched in, he adds, “If you bring an animal inside, you’ve got to name it, so, what are we calling Jon’s stray?”

“Oh, god, I have no idea.” Martin watches the cat move on to examine one of their two squashy armchairs and winces when she reaches up it to stretch. Her claws dig into the fabric as her back arches and there’s faint popping noises that heralds the destruction of the upholstery. With a satisfied little  _ mrrup _ , she jumps onto said armchair, sitting down on a book Martin had missed on his first go round of tidying. “And why is she _ Jon’s _ stray, _ I’m  _ the one who bought the cat food.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not the one who spends like an hour every day petting her and strategically moving where you feed her so she starts going to the front.” Tim sets Basira’s mug of coffee down with a very emphatic thump. “Therefore, Jon’s stray.”

Martin lets out a little considering noise, because it’s true. He might have bought the cat food, but only because Jon was about to start feeding her scraps of bacon and so on. She’s definitely inside because of Jon’s influence. 

He’s still her second favorite, though.

The cat looks up at him with wide green eyes as he walks over and offers her his hand. She pushes her head up against it, standing up and moving around until Martin scratches her haunches just before her tail. His eyes fall on the book she’s standing over, a copy of  _ Bloodchild and Other Stories. _

“Octavia Butler.”

“Pardon?” Basira asks.

“Octavia Butler, as a name for the cat,” Martin says, “I think Jon would appreciate that.”

“Hmm, yeah, he would. Nerd.” Basira snorts and takes another sip of her coffee. “Not that I’m much better. She’s a good author, she deserves to get a cat named after her.”

“Oh? What’s she write about?” Tim asks, and Basira’s eager to turn the question into a long, rambling conversation about science fiction and social commentary.

They wind up talking, Tim and Martin occasionally leaving the conversation to deal with a customer, until Daisy comes by to pick up Basira. 

It’s not busy, so Martin’s free to do pretty much whatever he wants. After the basic tasks that need to be done are over with - at least, until someone spills crumbs or uses a cup or something - he’s much calmer than earlier. The cafe’s atmosphere is as pleasant as it normally is, with Tim’s catchy pop playlist layered with the sounds of the espresso machine or Jon’s moving around in the kitchen. Martin can’t help nodding his head with the music as he wipes down tables or makes drinks or sits down for a couple minutes with a pad of paper to write down a little bit of prose that’s popped into his head. It’s much like any other day, and Martin finds himself a little more centered with every minute.

He’s nearly forgotten about the incident with the worms entirely by the time a dark haired man comes into the cafe with a bang and loud jangle from the bells hanging above the door.

The customer strides up to the counter, face furrowed in disgust and anger. As soon as he’s standing in front of Martin, he opens his mouth and just blurts out what’s bothering him.

Martin has a friendly, open face. A face people want to talk to. So people will spill their live stories to him on occasion. He’s used to it by now.

It’s still jarring when someone’s first words to him, a perfect stranger, are something as strange as, “That shop across the street has worms.”

Martin is intimately and uncomfortably aware of that. He’s also got no patience for worms at this point in his day.

“Yeah, they do. What can I get for you today?”

“Large coffee, extra shot, room for cream, please.” The man raises his voice, although he dosen’t seem aware that he’s shouting now. “It’s just- it’s so unsanitary! I can’t believe any place of business just has- has  _ insects _ , out in the open like that! That shop should be shut down for health and safety violations!”

“Righto, is that for here or to go?”

“Just, ugh, worms. To go, please.”

While Martin’s punching in the order, Worm Hater shifts foot to foot, glaring at a decorative little marzipan bee like he could erase every insect or insect-related item in the vicinity with sheer willpower if he just stared hard enough.

“God, someone should just burn that place down.”

Martin doesn’t necessarily disagree, although arson does seem like a bit of an overreaction for someone’s unusual pets. Customer service means putting up with that kind of nonsense without making a fuss over it, though, so he just smiles and nods. 

“Can I get a name for that?”

“Tim. Anyway, I just went in to get some design ideas, and just. Worms! There’s, like, at least three separate buckets of worms in there, there must be more than a hundred, just writhing away in the containers! I can’t believe they’re allowed to do that!”

“That’ll be £2.45. Do you want a receipt?” Martin really wants this guy to stop talking, because even the poor clumsy student is staring at him, and she’s been absorbed in her work since she broke the cup. Worm Hater Tim is officially more distracting than a cat.

He’s in luck, because Worm Hater Tim takes the receipt with an automatic thanks and wanders off to wait for his order, muttering about calling someone to complain. Tim Tim shares a commiserating look with Martin when he turns around to make the drink and drops his customer service smile. Customers like that are awful.

At least he’s not yelling any more. If someone brings up Prentiss or her peculiar interests again, he might cry.

Martin would like to forget about worms entirely, thank you very much.

  
  



	3. In Which Everyone Has A Bad Day

It’s not that Jon dislikes Jane Prentiss personally, it’s just that she has an unnerving tendency to make his life much more difficult than it needs to be every single time he interacts with her. That trend carries over to Tim, Sasha, and Martin as well. And Basira, Daisy, a fair number of customers Starebucks and Good Energies share, and possibly her long-suffering coworkers. 

So he’s not exactly thrilled when he’s sitting in the front, ready to leave after he finishes this cup of tea and the last of his ingredient documentation, and Jane walks in the door. 

She’s carrying three stacked plastic containers, large clear ones with loose-fitting lids and small holes messily punched into the sides near the top. Her eyes are red, and there are greyish streaks down her face that must be remains of mascara or eyeliner.

Tim winces and gives Jon a significant look from where he’s sitting on the other side of the table. It’s not a leap to realize that the containers she’s carrying must be full of the worms Martin encountered yesterday. Martin seems to come to the same conclusion, paling and immediately heading into the kitchen, leaving Sasha to take Prentiss’ order.

Sasha’s voice is impressively businesslike while she does her job, although Martin had fully filled her in on the worm situation earlier. The promise of sugar and caffeine seems to center Prentiss a little more, and she’s less frantic by the time she’s walking away from the counter. Beelining towards Tim and Jon, of course, because this is their life and they can’t just get a break for once.

Jon’s theory that nothing goes smoothly for him is confirmed when Jane trips barely two feet away from them. She just stumbles over her own feet, and in a desperate attempt to save the boxes, she practically juggles them, trying to keep them upright and stable. They do not. Instead, the boxes go in many directions, one off to her left and one falling right in front of her. The remaining container seems like it’s going to wind up the same as the second, until Prentiss’ desperate flailing knocks it high in the air, loose lid flying off it as soars right over Tim and Jon. A shower of worms falls over them, and Jon can’t bring himself to do anything but sit there, eyes and mouth closed tightly as possible, as dozens of little wriggling white things drop onto him.

The final container hits the floor with a dull plastic clatter. Jon shakes himself off as well as he can before cautiously opening his eyes. Sasha’s starting at them, wide-eyed and mouth agape at the sight of them and the worms. Jane’s standing there, eyes wide with horror and welling with tears, and he can hear the rest of the patrons muttering with surprise and disgust.

Tim’s not facing Jane, so it takes him a moment to realize what happened before his face transformed with revulsion and anger. He looks at Jon, then the table, then Jane, expression getting more and more comically outraged.

“You just spilled worms on me! I’m just here to pick Sasha up, and you spilled worms on me! What the fuck?!”

Jane starts properly crying at that, terrible hitching sobs that Jon wants to avoid almost as much as the worms. 

“Nobody, nobody  _ appreciates _ them! They’re beautiful creatures, and, and, I love them, and Mr. Amherst told me I wasn’t allowed to have them in the shop, so I just- just wanted to take them home, and now I’ve gone and  _ spilled _ them!” Her voice crescendos into a wail, and Jon can see Martin poking his head out of the kitchen before going white with horror. He ducks back into the kitchen immediately.

For a long moment, everything is still and quiet except the cafe’s music and Jane’s crying. Jon can feel worms crawling on his face and arms and through his hair. One of them falls off his cheek onto the table with a nearly silent thud. The customers are all staring, until Martin comes back in brandishing a broom and Sasha snaps into action, calling out, “Right, sorry about this, but we’re going to need to close early to deal with this. If you need a to-go container, please come up to the counter now.”

Tim swears again and starts brushing worms off him, their tiny squirming bodies falling off onto the table and floor around him. With a rush of realization, Jon follows suit, getting the worms off him with a frantic single-mindedness.

All the clientele leave easily enough, motivated by worms and social conventions. Within a minute, the shop is empty save for employees, Jane Prentiss, and a generous sprinkling of worms. Martin moves to start sweeping, but Jane steps forwards with a cry, and begs him not to kill her ‘babies’.

“I’m not sure if you noticed, but we’re a cafe. We can’t have worms all over the place, and it’s my job to clean them up, so what do you suggest instead?” Martin says, voice clipped and sarcastic with the tone he reserves for particularly unpleasant customers. Jane doesn't seem to notice.

“Just, don’t sweep them, it’ll crush them!” Jane bends down to pick up one of her containers, and replaces the paper towels. “I’ll help, but please, I want to make sure no more get hurt.”

The rest of them trade looks ranging from exasperated (Sasha) to disgusted (Tim). There aren’t many incidents that could be worse than the one with a Mr. Thorp, which had led to Elias almost pressing charges for lost revenue while they had to close the place. This might just edge it out as the most unpleasant thing to happen in Starebucks. At least there hadn’t been  _ worms _ involved.

Sasha seems to have the same idea, because she says, “Well, I’d love to help you guys clean up, but I have an appointment scheduled so I need to get there as soon as possible. Come on, Tim, let’s go.” 

“Right, yeah. Bye, have fun with the worms!” Tim stands up and shakes his head violently, like a dog trying to dry itself, and a few worms go flying. One of them hits Prentiss in her staring, horrified face. Tim shrugs at her and out of his jacket, shaking it out to dislodge a few more worms. 

It’d be quite a bit more infuriating if Jon hadn’t known about Sasha’s appointment beforehand. As it stands, he can’t blame them for wanting to get out as soon as possible. He still looks at Tim in betrayal as he leaves to give Sasha a ride, mouthing an exaggerated and ungenuine apology.

With a sniffle, Jane Prentiss starts to systematically pick up worms and place them back into the container. Martin makes a derisive noise and leaves  _ again _ , as she clears off enough space to set the bin down.

Normally, he doesn't need to help clean the front. But, well, it doesn't look like anybody else is going to do it, and he’s already been covered in worms once today.

Jon follows Prentiss’s example and starts to pick up each individual worm before flicking it back into the box, although he does trade the cooing and worried exclamations for muffled noises of disgust and a curled lip. 

When Martin comes back this time, he’s holding two sheets of paper. He kneels down at the edge of the worms, and with a quick, sharp motion, slides one of the sheets under a large collection of worms like an inverse tablecloth pull. The other sheet sweeps nearby worms up onto the first, and then Martin picks up the first sheet, and leans over to dump the worms into the nearest container.

Prentiss starts to complain, but Martin cuts her off with an exhausted, “I’m not touching them, this is the best you get.”

She shuts up, but still fixes Martin with a venomous glare. 

Martin works fairly quickly, with the paper, but it still takes upwards of five minutes for him to clear a path for Jon to leave the radius of worms to get his own papers. When he comes back and kneels next to Martin, Martin looks at him and asks, “Are you alright, Jon?”

“I’m… I’m fine. They haven’t, ah,  _ wormed _ their way into my heart or anything, but I can deal with it.” Jon shakes his head, sweeping a particularly large worm onto the paper before dumping it and several others out over the nearest container. “But honestly, why would you bring insects into anywhere selling food?”

“Dunno, but I wish she hadn’t.” Martin responds. He takes a little bit longer to get the pun, but when he does he lets out a startled laugh. “Was that a  _ joke _ ?”

“...Yes. I do have a sense of humor, you know.” 

“Not sure I’ve ever heard you make a joke before. I’d remember a pun that bad, I think.”

Jon feels much more offended than something this trivial should make him. “I joke!”

“Dunno, think it might be something about today that has you feeling all warm and fuzzy.” They’re facing opposite directions, but Jon can hear the smile in Martin’s voice. “Brought out the comedian in you, I guess.”

He can’t help but to snort at that, because Jon might have a sense of humor but it’s a terrible one. Martin laughs at him more, this time at the stupid noise. “See, I can make terrible puns too!”

“Oh, that’s not even a pun!” Jon argues, “It’s a play on words. So was mine, technically.” 

“That counts as a pun!”

“Doesn't count. Try again, Martin, and do better.”

After a few moments, Martin groans and dumps his paper of worms into the bin a little extra drama. “I can’t think of any good ones. Wormageddon? Wormpocalypse? Wormtergate? Nothing but terrible names for whatever you want to call this mess.”

“Well, they’re more stylish than The Finger Incident, I suppose.” Jon thinks for a bit. “There’s just not that many worm puns available.” 

Martin agrees, or conveys his agreement with a sort of hum. Jon’s distracted by trying to think up worm jokes, so it’s easy to slip into silence as they continue to clean. Both of them (well, Jon at least, but he likes to think Martin is) still avoid acknowledging Prentiss more than absolutely necessary. 

(Maybe if they draw her attention to themselves, she’ll forget about them, like some strange predator or possibly an angry grandparent. It’s worth a try, anyway.)

They’ve cleaned up a good chunk of the worms when Martin suddenly asks, “What do you call it when worms take over the world?”

“What?” Jon asks, with the right intonation to play his role in telling the joke. At least, he assumes it’s going to be a joke.

“Global worming.”

“Still on that disaster focus, I see.” Jon considers for a moment. “What sort of computer would a worm own?”

“What?”

“A Macintosh.”

“I don’t get- Oh, right, they’re an apple. ‘Course you’d remember that, Mr. Food Snob.”

“I’m not a food snob!” Jon insists, because he’s had this conversation a dozen times with Georgie. “I’m a professional, and I just don’t eat much!”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you eat more than toast or maybe a sandwich once in a while since we’ve worked here.”

“I’m not a snob, though!”

“What, just picky?” Martin teases. Jon scoffs at that.

“ _ Busy _ . I don’t have time to eat, always.” 

“Sounds like something a picky eater would say.”

“... Look, some textures are just unpleasant, but I’m really not that picky.”

“There’s no way you actually need to be working that much, you get breaks.” Martin says. He knows too much about Jon for him to win this argument. “You just use them to pet Octavia Butler.”

“I spend my entire day around food, I’d rather pet a cat than spend more time with food.” Jon’s argument might be weak, but he’s too stubborn to not try, as futile as it may be.

“That’s complete– whatever. I’ll just drag you out to get lunch sometime. Honestly Jon, you think someone who knows so much about food would know you need to eat some of it once in a while.”

“I- actually, that might be nice.” Jon mutters. “I don’t really get out much.”

“Oh! Well, I guess I’ll have to, now.” Martin’s surprised and triumphant in equal measure, and Jon’s actually pretty alright with that, considering he hates losing arguments. It’s sort of sweet to have someone so enthusiastic about spending time with him, even if it’s just to confirm he does actually eat. 

The worms get cleaned up, finally. It takes entirely too long and by the end Jon doesn't want to see, smell, or hear about anything even remotely related to a silkworm ever again. Prentiss leaves as soon as she can, still visibly upset but more careful with her containers, and Jon stays to help Martin clean the floor and tables. The work goes quickly with two people, even though Jon’s meticulous in wiping each potentially contaminated table at least twice with strong soap. 

By the time everything is put away and they’re free to lock up and go home, both of them reek of cleaning products. Stepping outside is almost dizzying, Jon’s lungs suddenly full of relatively-fresh air instead of evaporated detergent. Martin seems to have the same reaction, if the way his shoulders suddenly straighten out and he takes in a deep breath are anything to go by.

Neither of them are interested in much more than getting home and taking a shower, but just before Jon can leave, Martin stops him for a moment.

“Hey, Jon?”

“Yes?”

“Did you hear about the silkworms that were in a race?” Martin’s got a big, joking smile splitting his face. 

“No, what?”

“They wound up in a tie.”

It’s truly a terrible joke, but that doesn't stop the smile creeping onto his face. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel Thorp is the dude from Cheating Death. Also, Jon is totally a picky eater just in denial.
> 
> I'm moving this week, and then classes start next week, so I'm a little low on time but still trying to keep that sweet sweet regular(ish) posting schedule!

**Author's Note:**

> I was walking along, and thought of the pun Starebucks, and then everything just got really out of hand. No regrets tho


End file.
